Happy Ending
by SN-Simplicity
Summary: One night can turn a happy ending on its head. Just one night. One battle. And one death. Warnings: NOT happy, slash m/m , character death, angst. Keep in mind it was written late at night.


A/N: This is very crappy 2AM!fic, written because I was bored, posted because why the hell not? Um, not really a lot of effort went into this, sorry. One day I might go through and make it better. It also helped me discover that I'm incapable of writing anything but angst. (FYI: It was originally going to be PWP ^^")

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He stared at the door for a long moment. The sounds of receding footsteps faded into silence, which morphed into a ringing in Merlin's ears. He blinked, and found his eyes uncomfortably stinging.

_How long was I staring at the door for? _He wondered, before passing a hand over he eyes. He looked down at it in surprise and turned it in the diminishing light, watching the moisture send off glimmers in all directions. He looked around the empty bedroom, slowly. He felt as though if he moved too fast, his chest would snap, or his heart would burst. The breaths he took were short and painful; Merlin found he could no longer hear them over the incessant ringing. He sucked in a deep breath, attempting to fill the space in his constricted chest, trying to banish the odd sensation of having no physical wounds, but still feeling to weak to move, or even breath. The air entered his lungs not without effort, but his chest still hurt and his head still swam. Merlin felt dizzy, unbalanced and the breath shuddered and snagged in his throat.

_No! _He thought, _I promised! I said I would never let it get out of hand, never… Besides, it's my…destiny… _His resolved shook as emotions to large for him to control battered themselves against it, thousands of tiny, poison-tipped arrows repeatedly barraged his shields and, one by one, they inevitably fell. Merlin suddenly no longer felt too fragile to move. He was overcome, and blind, and lost. He shut his eyes tightly, cursing himself when tears slipped from under his lids. He moved one of his hands up to his cheeks and furiously wiped away the wetness that was there. Nails scraped across the skin, and he dug them into his flesh. Some part of his mind screamed at him: 'How would this help? You think it will make you numb? You are weak, and you know it…' But any rational thoughts he may have formed were drowned out.

No longer concentrating, the other hand flung out landed on the small table next to him. Merlin struggled for a moment just to open his eyes, and followed his arm along to the table, seeing what had cushioned the fall.

Immediately his face crumpled and sobs racked his body, sending his limbs into spasm, he knelt down on the floor next to the table and pulled Arthurs shirt to him. He buried his face in it, letting it soak up the tears that were now flowing freely down his face. He had no doubt that his nails had left deep indentations in his cheeks, but found that he didn't care. Nor did he care that if anyone should enter Arthur's bedroom they would find only this pathetic sight of his manservant, sitting back on his calves and leaning against a table leg, bent over with his face obscured by fabric. It seemed his own tears were drowning him, he could taste the salt in his mouth and the sobs reverberated in his ears. It amounted to the disconcerting sense that his head was just barely above water, and the second he lost concentration he would be sucked down into oblivion. The piece of clothing was his lifejacket, his float in a tumulus ocean he could sea neither beginning nor end of. And yet...

_Doesn't even smell like him _Merlin thought. He didn't give much attention to the apparent inanity of his mental comment. Of course it didn't, it had just been washed. Everything had. Nothing would hold one trace that Arthur was ever there: that he had lived in these clothes, or slept in that bed. Either Merlin or one of the other servants would have made sure his room was immaculate for when he returned from battle. No mess. No half-eaten food. This could be any room in the castle. It could mean nothing. But it didn't. Not to Merlin.

Merlin found himself at a loss. Emotions, stained dark red and vicious, clawed at him, and he couldn't hold them back. The complete loss of control was not unlike his magic, if it ever got beyond him. They savagely ripped at him from the inside, and he doubted, suddenly, that his skin was enough to keep him together. They rampaged through his mind and left it spinning in commotion, more than one, for Merlin had no idea just how many emotions man could possess before today. He only wished it could have been last night that new, raw emotions would seize him. But it was not to be. The beasts wrapped themselves around his lungs and squeezed his ribs, their venom penetrated his nerves, setting them on fire, and his brain screamed at him for some form of release. His legs and arms shook, but Merlin resisted the urge to scream. Physical _pain _coursed through his entire being, however only the frailest sound passed through his lips in place of a scream. His power shrieked for him. The only release he knew of.

_Not like it matters now _he thought as the glass from the windows shot inwards, tearing at curtains and bed sheets and skin. A vase violently smashed, sending pottery skidding across the wooden table Merlin was up against. A few chips slid off the edge into Merlin's hair, although he paid them no heed, they settled like snowflakes onto dark winter ground.

But still the claws sank deeper and flesh felt hyper-sensitive, whilst his bones were fragile as the objects he was destroying. He drew the fabric in his arms tighter to him, so he was not only near-suffocated on the inside. Another incomprehensible noise left his mouth, but this was harsher, unrefined and filled with hurt. His eyes snapped open and flared golden. He wasn't directing his power, it was directing him. It wasn't shaped or designed by Merlin; instead it broke free from him unbound and dangerous. Blood rushing around his head made it impossible for any noise or awareness to get through to his mind. Instead he looked around after a few moments to see what damage had been caused.

As he lifted his head, pottery, shreds of linen and slivers of wood reluctantly dislodged themselves from Merlins person and found there way to the floor. In addition to the shards of glass, Merlin found his knees resting in splinters of wood and fragments of pot. Material was also lightly falling around him, and, was it his imagination, or did the floor look slightly scorched? He manoeuvred himself so he could look around, properly taking in the state of the room.

The floor was indeed burnt, the source being from the hangings on the four-poster bed, or what remained of it. It seemed that in addition to the fire, both the hangings and bed frame had been blasted apart, along with the bed sheets and pillows. Upon first inspection, some may have suspected that hundreds upon hundreds of arrows had been fired into the fabrics, ripping them to shreds, or that the wooden framework had been hurled against the wall, scattering its remnants around the sorry excuse for a bed chamber. The table Merlin had been leaning against also seemed to have met the same fate, although he hadn't noticed. In fact, nothing was left of the set of drawers, the neatly stacked papers, the mirror or the chest. Merlin dared raise himself up slightly, so he was sitting on his haunches. It seemed that now, while not satisfied, he did not have enough energy to continue. Not just yet. Every object in the room appeared to be scattered around Merlin's feet, and even the walls and floor hadn't escaped. Dented, scratched and scorched space outweighed clean wall or floor.

Merlin cautiously levered himself up, still not releasing his grip on the shirt, and became vaguely aware of his hands and knees being quietly torn by the angry victims of his anguish littering the ground. When he was fully standing, and trusted himself enough to move without falling apart at the seams or releasing more destructive magic, he took a few calm steps toward the door. It, he noted dimly, hadn't been obliterated. Judging by the light it was evening-time, and most would be down at dinner. It would be a sombre affair tonight, he imagined. However he was not so detached as to believe no servants would be in the halls. They had probably already called for help after hearing the racket in the late Princes rooms.

A few careful steps more, and Merlin reached the door. While not ruined beyond recognition like the rest of the room, it had not come out unscathed, still suffering from burns and dents. He tucked the shirt under his arm before closing the door behind him. Now the room meant nothing. It was no longer where Merlin had brought Arthur his food and clean clothes. The place where they had bantered, argued, or just talked. Where, just yesterday- _Seems like so long ago, how could it be so long ago?_- Arthur had told Merlin he would be leading the army into battle against a magician powerful enough to destroy villages and take lives without thought or apparent effort. Where Merlin was told he would have to neglect being involved in this encounter. Where, when he protested, he was asked why he was so concerned. So Merlin had finally admitted his greatest secret. A sort of magic. Binding and undeniable. It wasn't associated with golden eyes, but with an afflicted heart. Merlin stopped and looked back at the door. _No, _he thought as he turned back around, prepared to leave Camelot and never return. _It's just a destroyed room. It's nothing. _He stopped himself from thinking of the previous day, for fear of what it might cause. It didn't matter now anyway.

As he reached the stables, he knew that the King would send someone after him. This… incident would have done nothing to soften his attitude toward magic and its users, and if the bedroom and Merlin's impromptu flight from the Kingdom was not evidence enough, Uther would surely send someone if just to discharge some of his own feelings of loss, rage and hopelessness. Somehow Merlin knew his attempt to run was in vain. He should take this opportunity to comfort the others- Morgana, Gwen… even Gaius would be devastated, before his inevitable capture. Maybe he would even get to glimpse the funeral. Yet he rode away from the castle. In a few days, at most, he was sure he would be found and executed, just adding more pain for those he loved to suffer under. But running, like his unruly magic, felt good. Magic gave him the knowledge that not everything was under his control, not even that planned by destiny. And running gave him the opposite. No matter how ridiculous and fruitless it would be, he at least had the power to do that, even if it was not what he truly wanted. His deepest desire was what he could never regain. So he fled, Arthurs shirt still pressed firmly against his tortured heart.

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A/N: Well if anyone read this I hope you enjoyed! Please tell me of any spelling mistakes I might have made, thanks! =3


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